


Madness Rides the Star-wind

by TwoCrows



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh! ARC-V
Genre: Angst, Apocalypse, Cryptic Writing, Disaster, Gen, Madness, Mild Horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-13
Updated: 2019-05-13
Packaged: 2020-03-02 20:00:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18817972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwoCrows/pseuds/TwoCrows
Summary: A former city, its splendour seemingly long gone. Faint sunlight, shining through the devastated buildings, setting the air alight with spectres of madness. Their terrifying cries in the ear, ghastly floating over the lifeless streets, fading memories of those who have once lived here. Deep, deep down it goes.





	Madness Rides the Star-wind

Deep, deep down it goes, over the edge and deep, deep down. Ten floors, twenty, thirty. And then the torn up ground below. So many. So many before.

In good moments they seem to be still there, all there and smiling. But then a breeze comes up, bringing the stench of smoke and dust and they fade to nothing.

This is not the time.

Faint light glistening in the shattered windows above, feeble rays that the clouds aren’t able to block out. It falls on the remains of gutted cars, piles of debris and broken concrete.

A breath. A heartbeat. And then, running, running through the shadows among these once familiar streets, jumping over clefts and fissures, challenging the spectres of madness. Swirling. A flash of light. A hail of fire. Screams. Screams within.

Deformed bodies rising from beneath the rubble, swivelling smashed heads and strangely angled limbs. The soil quakes from the steps of cyclopean mounds of steel. A wall of fire racing closer, the dreadful faces turning black and crumbling to ashes. Heat, biting the skin. Turning. Turning and running. Falling, at last.

Deep, deep down it goes. Darkness, all around. Accompanied by the smell of the sewer. Darkness around. Darkness and cold. A path, small and hard to feel. But it is there. Water dripping down, somewhere close, the sound calming.

Words come up, long gone and thought to be forgotten. In the darkness the pilgrim.

Words from a past life. Words from a time when people were smiling, when there were candles and cakes, when there was laughter and song.

In the darkness the pilgrim. The birds beneath the surface, mocking the scaly lords of the air.

A mirror of ice. And inside it, the blind pilgrim. The blind pilgrim in the darkness.

A snap. Running across a wasted land, wind tousling the hair. Trees, their mighty roots looming high into the air, foliage of green beneath the feet. Raindrops fall and they wilt and turn black. The proud trunks writhe in agony. Puddles, puddles on the ground, water splashing up with every step.

A mirror. A mirror reflects the truth.

Puddles. A shimmering halo of stars. And beyond the mirror an army of wraiths, soundlessly floating across the land. Skyscrapers loom to both sides, but slanted, tired giants of concrete.

Men are not god. What they create will wither and fall apart. Whatever the future holds, Men will not be part of it.

Words. Words echoing within, throbbing with every beat.

Through the gates, not caring about the eyes that stare from every window, sinister, empty, dead. A large clock. Its hands move backwards. A man with a painted face, a clown, and his donkey.

He is nice. His words bring laughter.

An archway above, huge and high. Bundles hang down from it, on long ropes, bundles that have hands and feet.

The sky comes falling down. Steel bursts, concrete breaks, what has remained of glass shatters. It begins at the top. Those who hang highest come falling first, in a ghastly rain of flesh. A loud roaring tears the air and it starts moving.

The clouds whirl rapidly across the sky, lightning flickering from time to time. And with every flicker there are coffins around, black and tall and overwhelming. The fearful thrum of a heart, louder than the thunder.

And running. Great clamour in the air, screams. Words, miles away and right behind.

In the darkness the pilgrim. And the four-headed serpent winding around the tree at the spring of mirth. Black smoke, and among it sparks of red, a blazing glow. Eyes, burning with pain, a choked cough. A circle of fire. And beyond it, children, veiled in black, silently staring.

A muffled cry. The circle flares up, flames turning grey and taking wings, flocks of birds soar to the sky, strange and without feathers or skin or flesh.

A familiar face, the gentle touch of a hand. Kind words, easing the heart. Suddenly, a push. And another. Trapped inside a mass of shapes, shapes running, fleeing from something, hundreds, thousands. A heavy gust and the houses give way, debris raining down on the frightened and the streets turn red.

Among the running crowds, unmoving, sits the clown on his donkey. His eyes are black now, black and deep like a hole. And deep, deep down it goes.

In the darkness the pilgrim. And he holds a lantern which glows, but does not give light.

Then there is a meadow, the grass pale blue, like frigid crystal. The wind is blowing, but it moves in a different rhythm. High above, the moon, crested by a halo of stars. And there are thousands, no, millions, waiting, staring up, though their eyes can’t see anymore.

Men are destined to fade. For eternity is the domain of those who live outside the stream of time. 


End file.
